


Cream, No Sugar

by fiendlikequeen



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, but no actual funny business in this one, francis might be getting naked but there aren't any actual shenanigans happening, poor james just gets to LOOK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25864762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiendlikequeen/pseuds/fiendlikequeen
Summary: What do you do when you spill hot coffee on your most frustrating colleague and he starts taking off his clothes? Don't ask James Fitzjames, he doesn't know either.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 26
Kudos: 104





	Cream, No Sugar

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to work on a ~real fic~ and this stupid thing kept interrupting. Begone, thought! So it's here, instead.

James Fitzjames is an idiot, apparently.

_**Henry Le Vesconte:** You’re an idiot_

So reads a text that arrives to James’s phone at 7:58 AM on a Saturday. Holding in one hand a to-go tray with pair of coffees, he types with the other thumb as presses the button for the lift.

 ** _James Fitzjames:_ ** _Thanks. Why tho?_

Three little dots pulse for a minute, and then:

 **_Henry Le Vesconte:_ ** _Going to the office on a Saturday morning_

James is about to reply, but Dundy isn’t done:

 **_Henry Le Vesconte:_ ** _Don’t say it’s because you want that promotion **  
Henry Le Vesconte:** I know it’s because you know he’s there  
 **Henry Le Vesconte:** You’re so stupid  
 **James Fitzjames:** Worse than that, actually!  
 **Henry Le Vesconte:**?????!!!!  
 **James Fitzjames:** Brought him a coffee_

The lift dings, and the doors open, timed perfectly with Dundy’s incredulous reply:

 **_Henry Le Vesconte:_ ** _You’ve got a nice dick but you should stop thinking with it_

*****

The office is dark. For a moment, James wonders if he’s the only one stupid enough to put in overtime on a gloomy Saturday morning, until he sees a desk light on across the room. Setting his own coffee down and leaving his coat behind, he goes off in search of his colleague.

Said colleague proves not to be at his desk when James arrives. His laptop is, and so are his glasses, so he must be nearby. Not at the copier, which James can see from here. Or in the loo – the light’s off. Maybe in the kitchen.

James turns to check and collides with Francis Crozier, who has snuck up on him from behind. The coffee he is holding goes everywhere. Everywhere is, in this case, all over Francis.

“What the fuck-”

“I brought you coffee,” says James. Cream, no sugar. How Francis likes it. “That was it. Jesus. Sorry.”

“Thanks,” says Francis, acidly. He’s flapping the sleeves of his jumper, little coffee droplets flying from the cuffs. “The hell are you doing here?”

James is more than a little offended that his kindly gesture is being so poorly received. Then again, said kindly gesture has spilled on Francis from collar to knee, so perhaps some irritation on Francis’s part is warranted.

“Working,” says James.

Francis scoffs: “Didn’t think you were here for the company.”

Unfortunately for James, that’s actually _exactly_ why he’s here. “Do you want mine?”

“No,” says Francis, to James’s offered coffee. “No, I’ll just – Tom keeps a spare set of clothes here, let me just-”

James realizes too late what Francis is doing.

Francis pulls at collar of his jumper, tugs it over his head, and thrusts it into James’s hands. Swears when he notices that coffee has seeped through the fabric.

“Sorry,” says James, and then nearly bites his tongue in two when Francis’s response is to start pulling off his t-shirt, too. Francis struggles a moment, and James almost reaches out to help him. He’s glad when he doesn’t.

He’s just going to stay quiet, hold Francis’s jumper for him. Just look away politely until Francis is done, but he is, as Dundy has said, _an idiot,_ and something catches his eye.

“You’ve got a tattoo?”

Francis is patting himself off with a dry corner of his t-shirt. “Was a sailor,” he reminds James. “Got a few.”

Oh. Oh, _God._

James is surprised he hasn’t noticed the anchor on Francis’s upper arm before; but Francis, ever the cagey old fox, so covetous of his own privacy, probably wears longer sleeves with the express purpose of hiding it. But James would have no reason to have ever seen the swallow inked above Francis’s heart, and likewise no excuse ever to trace with an affectionate hand the beautiful full-rigged ship revealed when Francis turns to place his soiled t-shirt on the chair.

James is expecting Francis to ask for his jumper back. He doesn’t. James puts it down on the desk, and tries to think with the head on his shoulders instead of the one between his legs. Makes the mistake of looking back at Francis.

Francis has _freckles,_ for Christ’s sake. Spangling his shoulders, falling like stardust nearly to his navel. James wants to count them with his tongue. Wants to trace their path down Francis’s chest. Knead his soft belly like a cat, follow the nearly invisible path of downy hair all the way to Francis’s-

“Jesus, what a fucking mess,” Francis says, staring down at his coffee-soaked trousers.

There are many, many things James would call Francis’s body, but ‘mess’ is not one of them. His life, yes. His personality, absolutely. But the body currently being revealed in the most maddening of stripteases? No.

“Sorry,” says James, again. “Do you want me to-”

Speech becomes impossible, because Francis is getting his jeans off, too. James’s mouth is dry. He tries to look away – tells himself he tries, anyway – and fails entirely. What had lurked below the surface of denim and linen and the occasional pair of hideous corduroy trousers is now bared, in all its glory. James flushes deeply at noting that Francis has a pair of thick, strong thighs. Flushes even deeper when he sees that something quite substantial is _barely_ being contained by Francis’s briefs.

“Christ, James, do you _mind?”_ Francis’s voice is a low hiss, his brogue heavy with irritation.

James looks up, meets Francis’s gaze. This is, somehow, worse than looking at his cock.

“Wh…wha?” Not even a full word. Thinking with his dick and not his head. Usually, his dick’s a little more eloquent than this, though.

“If it bothers you,” Francis says, gesturing vaguely at himself, “look away.”

“It doesn’t,” James blurts, before he thinks better of it. “Er. Doesn’t bother me. Not like – not like you think.”

“Oh? How _does_ it bother you, then?”

James couldn’t possibly tell Francis the truth, which is that he’d like nothing more than to rip Francis’ remaining clothing off with his teeth, and get his mouth on that absolutely massive, thick-

He doesn’t say this. He just stands there, doing something awkward with his hands to keep himself from folding them in front of his own enthusiasm.

Francis nods. Draws himself up. His mouth is working, swallowing down some emotion for which James doesn’t have a name but one he recognizes all the same. He obviously thinks that he’s got the shape of James’s misgivings. He’s wrong, of course. He’s _always_ wrong about James, why can’t he see that, why can’t he see what James _really_ thinks of him-

“I see. Well,” he says. James pales to hear the curdled, sour tone of his voice. “If you’re just going to stand there looking at me like I’m some sort of hideous _thing-”_

James’s proverbial hackles rise. “Now that’s not fair, Francis-”

“-you’ll excuse me if do this somewhere else-”

“-hold on a minute, won’t you, I can _explain-”_

“-spare you the agony of seeing _this-_ ”

It is agony, but not for the reason Francis imagines. The man turns away; James, stupidly, grabs for his arm. Gets his hand instead.

“Don’t touch me,” Francis seethes, angrier than before. James wants to slap him. He also wants to kiss him. He shouldn’t do either.

“You didn’t let me explain, won’t you just listen for one _fucking_ minute while I – while – while I tell you-”

“While you tell me what, James? I don’t need you to tell me what people think when they look at me, I can see it plain enough!”

“Oh? And what do people think, Francis? Go on, tell me what I think, if you know so well!”

“Come off it,” retorts Francis. His hair, mussed by his jumper, stands out from his head like the fur on an angry cat’s back. James wants to stroke it, set it to rights. Wants also to get a fistful of it and drag Francis’s stupid face right into his own. “You always look like just the sight of me is enough to make you sick, don’t pretend that seeing me like this is anything other than-”

Dundy’s words come to him, unbidden.

“You’re an idiot,” James tells him, curtly.

“I am, am I?”

“Yes, you are,” he says. The confession comes pouring out of him, catharsis in half-nonsensical babbling. “You daft prick, I was – Christ, you’ve no idea how attractive I find you, do you? Of course you don’t, you hate me, but I feel like I’m going to spontaneously combust when you’re fully clothed and looking at me like you want to throttle me, can you _imagine_ how I feel when you’re getting naked in a darkened room, it’s a-”

He breaks off, tries again:

“It’s, uh, hard.”

It’s _very_ hard.

But Francis is scowling at him, and James realizes something awful. “You think I’m taking the piss,” he says. “You think – why the _fuck_ would I lie about this?”

“So you could have a good laugh with Henry and Graham, no doubt.”

“Oh, that’s lovely,” says James. “That’s so generous, what you think of me. You think I’d -Christ. Well, I wouldn’t.”

“…you wouldn’t?” Francis’s voice is strangely small.

“No. So you’ll just have to deal with the fact that I haven’t stopped thinking about kissing you since we met.”

Francis doesn’t have a response to that, not right away. When he does, it isn’t the one James expects. “Anything else?”

“What?”

“You said that you – that you think about – about kissing me,” says Francis. James isn’t imagining it – he’s blushing. He’s flushed a patchy pink all the way down his neck. “Is there anything else you…think about?”

“Why?”

“Because. Because maybe I,” he says. Breaks off, curses under his breath. Looks right at James as he goes on. “Because maybe I think about…that sort of thing, too.”

Oh. Oh, yes.

“Like what?”

“James, it’s – it’s not work-appropriate,” says Francis. As if anything that has happened up until this point is!

James approaches him. Cocks a brow, smiles at Francis. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“Wh – James, are you – what are you doing?”

“Or maybe,” purrs James, crowding Francis up against the desk, “I could _show_ you, instead.”

“Oh, Christ,” says Francis, and then kisses James, hard.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I rewatched the Jazza Hazza parts of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Apparently I was sobbing the words “CHUMBLY TUMMY” before I blacked out.


End file.
